Never Alone
by Dawnfire11
Summary: Sherlock is constantly falling apart, injuring himself and making mistakes. He is lucky he has his blogger to put him back together. A collection of bromance filled hurt/comfort fanfictions featuring hurt!Sherlock and doctor!John. No slash.
1. Introduction: Not Gay!

**A/N: Hey all! I know I should be updating all of my other stories... but I just have a whole bunch of ideas floating inside of my head that I need to get out. **

**This story will be a collection of Sherlock bromance h/c oneshots. There will be no slash, but I am sure if you wear goggles you could take it as such. **

**Now the formalities... **

**Warning: None. Just cuteness. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock**

**Shall we begin? **

* * *

Introduction: Not Gay

"John?"

Sherlock's voice carries to him from across the room, urgently pulling John from his thoughts. The blogger looked up from his computer screen, eyes burning and black dots dancing in his vision.

"What is it?" he asked Sherlock as he blinked the dots away, his hand rubbing at his eyes vigorously.

The consulting detective lay on the couch, his pale eyes searching over the screen of his phone, held above his head at arms length.

"Do we have a bromance?"

John nearly fell out of his chair, his hand clutching at his computer as it began to slip off his lap. "W... what?" John stammered, his voice cracking, sounding embarrassingly similar to that of a thirteen year old going through puberty.

"Do we have a...?" Sherlock began again. John's voice quickly sliced through the air, cutting him off.

"I know what you said, Sherlock... But... I just... What?"

"John this is important!" Sherlock responded. "Just answer the question." The consulting detective's fingers tapped the button on the side of the phone, the screen clicking into blackness, the sound echoing around the silence.

"Why do you ask?" John said, studying his friend.

"I was reading the news... a news article about the case we just finished... and several people in the comments section said they loved our bromance..." Sherlock responded. "I didn't know what that was, so logically I looked it up. Bromance: a close but nonsexual relationship between two men... Now I repeat my question. Do we have a bromance?"

John finally answered, looking Sherlock straight in the eyes and speaking carefully. "Considering the amount of times I've had to pick you up off the floor and patch you back together, I would say we have more than a bromance."

Sherlock froze, his mouth opening and closing a few times, looking as if he were an animal about to be hit by an oncoming truck. "John... I must remind you, I am not interested in a sexual..."

"OH MY GOD. I'm. Not. GAY!"

* * *

**A/N: Haha, poor John. I hope you liked this chapter.**

**Please note that I got the definition for bromance of google... XD **

**Soundtrack of the day: Stag night from Sherlock season three soundtrack. **

**I apologize for the shortness of it, but it was just a brief intro before we get into the good h/c fluffiness. **

**I would love it if you left a review and told me what you thought. I also take suggestions! **

**Have a great day guys! XD **

**-Dawn **


	2. A Burned Heart

**A/N: I am so sorry about the delay. This would have gotten posted sooner, but... The prompt just took me away... and it turned out to be really really really long. XD**

**I hope you enjoy!**

**Note: Set after The Great Game but before season two. **

**Warning: Possible triggers. Torture and violence. **

**Disclaimer: I sadly do not own Sherlock...**

* * *

A Burned Heart

Sherlock was unlocking the door of his flat when it happened. One moment, he was about to step inside the flat, the next he felt something brush the side of his head, nearly making him jump.

He knew what it was the instant it touched him, the sound of a small click making him wince slightly.

The gun pressed to his temple, cold metal digging into his face. He didn't dare turn around to see who was holding the gun, his eyes fixed on the floor, staring at the gunman's leather shoes.

"Don't," the detective said. His voice was not weak or quivering, but strong and full of confidence.

"Why shouldn't I shoot you, Mister Holmes?" the man snarled, digging the gun harder into Sherlock's skull. There was a moment of tension before the man spoke again. "Nothing will stop me from putting a bullet in your leg... somewhere where it would hurt... But I can't kill you... at least not yet. My employer would not be pleased with me. Now, start walking, Mister Holmes."

"I don't believe we've met. But I can tell by your left shoe that you have a wife," Sherlock responded. "Polished and shining. A man of your stature wouldn't even bother with the shoes. Oh, but she cares about you. Doesn't want you walking around in grubby clothing and dirty shoes. She polishes them for you."

"Shut up," the man snarled. "Get in the car." The man pushed Sherlock's back as a black car pulled up. Sherlock twisted, catching a glimpse of his captors face before the man snapped the door shut.

He was bald, dark eyes staring out of a pale face, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He wore a suit.

_Westwood. _

And that was when Sherlock knew where he was going.

This could not be good.

XXXXX

John walked down the sidewalk, grumbling to himself and lugging his bag over one shoulder. "Stupid, stupid, stupid..." he mumbled to himself.

He had been at work all day, tediously seeing to each patient. A bout of flu had started to circulate, so he had no breaks and his head was already beginning to pound by lunchtime.

To top it all off, he had been unable to find a cab home and had been forced to walk. "If only the bloody cab-magnet was here," he mumbled to himself as he stepped up to the door.

Speaking of the cab-magnet, Sherlock had left his keys in the door... again. John pulled them out of the keyhole, stepping inside and dashing up the stairs, wielding the key in front of him as if it were a weapon.

"Sherlock! You did it again! How many times do I have to tell you, don't leave the..." he trailed off when he saw the empty sitting room.

He had become so accustomed to finding Sherlock sprawled on the couch that he didn't know where else to look for a moment, his eyes traveling across the empty room.

_Bedroom... The git finally got tired and fell asleep. _John walked over to the consulting detective's closed door and rapped lightly.

"Sherlock?" he called when there was no response. "You left the key in the door again..."

There was no answer and John felt a brief flash of panic. "Sherlock, answer or I'm coming in..."

He waited a few more moments before deciding enough was enough. If Sherlock wasn't happy with John coming into his room, he would have to deal with it.

The door creaked open, revealing an empty room. John stared at the bed, the crisp white sheets, folded neatly, _unslept in. _

He pulled out his phone in a rush. _No texts. _

Without thinking, he dialed a number, pressing his phone to his ear.

"Hello?" The voice on the other side was soft, feminine.

"Hey, Molly... has Sherlock stopped by?" John tried to hide the panic in his voice, taking a deep breath through his nose.

"Yeah, actually... he was here this morning. He left before lunchtime, though..." Molly said. She could hear the tension in John's voice. "What's wrong?"

"He... he isn't here and his keys were in the door..." John said. "I'm probably just overreacting... but I'm a bit worried."

"I'm sure it's fine, John," Molly said. John could hear the smile in her voice. "I will tell him you are looking for him if I see him."

John hung up, fingers flying as he typed in Lestrade's number. The DI picked up after two rings.

"Lestrade here," he said.

"Hey," John said. "I... Is Sherlock there?" John asked.

"No. I haven't seen him all week. Why?" Lestrade asked.

John explained the situation to his friend, now unable to hide the panic in his voice. There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment.

"Don't worry about him, John. I am sure he just decided to go for a walk or something. He is a grown man, John," Lestrade responded. "Listen, if something does come up, call me..."

"Alright, thanks," John said, hanging up.

He stared down at the bright rectangular screen of his phone for a moment. He knew what he had to do. Sherlock wouldn't be happy about it, but John was going to call the only other person he knew for a fact could fix this.

Mycroft Holmes.

XXXXX

"Sherlock Holmes."

The voice was high and cold, sending a small shiver up the consulting detective's spine.

Fear. He was unfamiliar with it. The last time he had felt this way was when he was watching John standing in the pool, the bombs strapped to his chest. He didn't like the feeling.

Now, he was tied to a chair, his hands behind him at an awkward angle, his fingers tingling slightly when he wiggled him. An itchy blindfold was pulled over his eyes while he was in the car, and he was unable to see anything but a small rectangle of light at the top, where it had slipped down his head.

"What do you want, Moriarty?" Sherlock asked.

"Ooooh good!" Moriarty crowed. "You figured that out quickly."

"Next time, don't send your henchmen in Westwood," Sherlock snapped back. "If that wasn't a sign, I don't know what was. Even John would have gotten that."

There was a cold giggle from somewhere to his left. No, now to his right. Moriarty was circling him like a shark, Sherlock realized.

"What do you want from me?" Sherlock asked. "You are beginning to bore me and I have work that I have to do."

"Work," Moriarty snorted. "You and I both know you haven't had a case for weeks. I took care of that..."

Confusion. Another feeling that Sherlock was unaccustomed to. "Why would you want to do that?"

"Because. It was funny to see you get so anxious. I especially liked it when you threw the stapler at John. I'm sure he liked that," Moriarty giggled. "As for what I want, I am sure you can answer that. I want to burn the heart out of you..."

Sherlock chose not to answer, trying to pull his wrists free from the chair, the ropes biting at the soft skin of the inside of his wrists.

"Oh, don't do that, Sherl'," Moriarty crowed.

Sherlock didn't listen, his fingers twisting, trying to feel for a knot to undo. His blood froze and his breath caught in his throat when he felt something smooth and cold press against his face.

_A blade, most likely steak-knife._

"That's right," Moriarty crooned. "It's time for us to have some fun."

Sherlock hissed through his teeth as the knife dug into the side of his cheek, a warm trail of liquid dripping down his cheek.

"John will come for me," he snarled at Moriarty, turning his head upwards.

This time, full blown laughter echoed around him. _Small square room, five meters by five meters. _

The blade trailed down his neck, resting on his shoulder lightly.

"That's the beauty of it, Sherlock. We are somewhere where no one will ever find you."

Moriarty pressed the blade down.

XXXXX

"You are calling because of Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was short and clipped.

"Yes," John responded. "He is..."

"Yes, John. I am aware my brother is missing. But I am afraid I am of no help. Someone has tampered with my security footage..." Mycroft said.

John cursed under his breath. "There has to be something you can do!" he shouted into the phone.

"I'm afraid I can not help you," Mycroft replied calmly.

"Mycroft. Bloody. Holmes. He is your brother. You have the resources to find him. So do it," John snapped.

"While I do have resources, I do not have time. An unexpected crisis has arisen that must require my full attention."

With that, the line went dead.

XXXXX

Sherlock could feel every beat of his heart, pain ripping through his shoulder with every flutter in his chest. He tried to cry out, but his voice had left him long ago.

His blindfold had slipped from his head, and he could see the room he was in, a single light bulb casting a weak glow above him. He sat in the center, no other furniture in the room except for the chair he sat in. The stone walls seemed to close in on him and he clenched his eyes shut.

There was a click as a lock unbolted.

"Sherl'," Moriarty said with a sinister grin. "I see you managed to get the blindfold off... that is actually good. This time, I want you to watch, knowing that you can do absolutely nothing to stop me."

With that, Moriarty took a step forwards, his hand coming up to reveal a long, metal rod, the end flattened out and glowing bright red.

"Oh yes, Sherlock. I am going to burn you," Moriarty said, holding the glowing end of the rod next to Sherlock's face.

The criminal leaned in until Sherlock could see a slight glint in his eyes. "I've just had the most amazing idea."

Moriarty's pale hand shot forward, grabbing the hem of Sherlock's shirt and tugging. The purple fabric ripped, Moriarty tossing it aside. It landed in a heap on the ground and Sherlock glared at his captor.

"That was my best shirt," he said, trying to hold his head up against the pain still rippling though his shoulder.

Before he could say more, Moriarty pressed the metal to Sherlock's chest, over the consulting detective's racing heart.

Fire ripped through him. Burning, all consuming, fire.

XXXXX

John's phone buzzed, making the blogger jump awake. He searched around blearily for a moment before spotting it on the bedside table.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Hey, John... Sorry to call you so early in the morning... but we think we got a lead for Sherlock..." the DI said hurriedly.

John sat fully upright. "What? From where?" John asked.

"A blocked caller... phoned about twenty minutes ago saying Sherlock had been kidnapped right outside Baker Street. They gave us a license plate number and a location..."

"Where? Where is he?" John asked.

Lestrade gave him an address and John threw on his jacket. The last thing he did before leaving the flat was grab his gun, the smooth metal feeling dangerous and familiar in his sweaty palm.

XXXXX

His eyelids fluttered open, his head aching when the light bombarded his vision. He clenched his eyes shut as nausea rose up in him.

_Have to get out. Have to call John... _His thoughts were muddled, swirling around in his head like a pot of stirred soup.

_Bonds... need to break... _

He tugged his wrists, flinching as the rope chaffed his already sore skin. There was no way he would have enough strength to break the ropes... He had to find another way.

His chest flared with pain and it became hard to breathe, the room swimming around him as his eyes watered. He took a shuddering breath, his head spinning.

_Angle... got to get the right angle... _Sluggish numbers clouded into his mind. Useless facts and statistics.

He twisted his wrists upward, crying out as agony tore through his shoulder. He felt the ropes slip a little.

He had a brief flash of clarity. There was only one way he would get out of his bonds.

_I have to break my wrists. _

He closed his eyes and took a breath, bending his arms upwards and slamming them against the edge of the back of the chair.

A crack filled the room and an explosion of pain ripped through him. Looking down, he saw one of his wrists was bent at an awkward angle. He still couldn't pull free from the ropes.

He took a moment to collect himself before slamming the other arm down as hard as he could. Another snap. More pain. Darkness filled his vision.

_No. No. NO! _He shouted at himself, feeling warm tears slide down his cheeks. He would not pass out!

He weakly pulled his wrists from his bonds, biting down on his tongue to keep from screaming.

He stood up, the room swaying as he stumbled forwards. He tried the door. Locked.

As he slumped to the ground in defeat, he heard a huge crash coming from outside his cell.

XXXXX

The address led him to an abandoned flat. He tossed money at the cabbie, jumping out of the cab, not caring if he gave too much or too little. He stepped up to the flat and pressed his hand to the door handle on the door. He jiggled it, but it did not budge.

Without hesitation, he slammed his shoulder into the wood, hearing a satisfying, splintering crash. The door flew open and he stumbled inside of the dark flat.

There was no noise, no movement, no sign of any life at all. John's hand groped along the wall until he found a switch, flicking the light on.

The room he was standing in was a sitting room, not a person in sight. He walked down the hallway, going to the first door he could find. Twisting the handle, he found it was also locked.

His eyes searched frantically for a key, resting on the drawer in the corner. Pulling it open, he reached inside, hands clasping around a cold, metal object. He turned it in his hands, feeling the rough edges.

Inserting the key into the lock, he opened the door, feeling a slight resistance on the other side.

He pushed harder, stopping when he heard a moan. "Sherlock?" he breathed out. He could just see into the room as he pressed his face to the crack. A person lay slumped by the door, brown curls shielding his face from view.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me? I need you to move away from the door," John said. There was no response, and John felt bile rise in his throat as a terrible thought flashed into his head. What if his friend was dead.

He pushed the thought aside, calling out to his friend again. "Sherlock, listen... Sherlock!"

The consulting detective shifted and let out a moan.

"Sherlock... move away from the door please... just a bit, Sherlock..." John said.

Sherlock looked up, his eyes a shade of emerald in the dim light. "Jo..?" he started.

"Yes, you prat. Now would you please move... I need to get inside."

Sherlock tried to push away from the door, shouting when his broken wrists connected with the concrete. The door opened and John slipped inside, making his way to the figure lying on his back.

His trained eye took in the burns, the broken wrists, and the knife wound. Blood was leaking onto the floor, trickling into a crimson pool.

John pressed his finger's to Sherlock's neck. There was no pulse.

"No. No! Sherlock we are not going to do this today!" John snapped. "You are going to survive this!"

He pressed his hands to Sherlock's chest, pressing down repeatedly. There was no response. He tried again.

There was a noise from outside the room, people's voices, the sound of sirens.

John didn't look up when people piled into the room. He didn't look up when someone placed their hands on his. He struggled as they pulled him away.

"No! He's dying! I have to help him!" he shouted, facing his opposer with a snarl.

The viciousness dropped off his face as he saw it was a paramedic. An ambulance had arrived. John stepped back, letting the paramedics get to Sherlock. He felt a hand land on his shoulder, turning to the gray haired figure.

"Lestrade," he managed through the lump in his throat. "What took you so long?" There was no venom in his voice, only a sad brokenness.

"We... had to put together a team... and fill out... paperwork," Lestrade said, aware of how pitiful his excuses sounded.

John followed the paramedics as they loaded his friend into the ambulance. The red and blue lights hurt his eyes, sending pain stabbing into his skull. He pushed back the doctors, climbing inside the vehicle and standing next to Sherlock's still form.

"Sir, you have to leave..." a woman said.

"I'm his family," John lied, watching the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. No one was dumb enough to argue with him.

XXXXX

John sat next to the hospital bed, his back aching. He heard the door open and he glanced up, not surprised by who he found.

Mycroft stood at the threshold of the room, his umbrella gripped in one hand. He looked over at the bed at his little brother, and John swore he saw his eyes soften.

"I have come to thank you," Mycroft said, breaking the silence. "You saved my brother's life..."

"I didn't do anything..." John responded immediately.

"You did more than you could ever imagine," came Mycroft's obscure reply.

John studied the man, taking in his ruffled hair, the bags under his eyes. Mycroft looked as if he hadn't slept for days. That was when John realized...

"We really owe our thanks to that anonymous caller," John said slowly. "Do they know who it was?"

Mycroft was quit for a moment. "No," he said.

"That person must have had connections... to know where Sherlock was..." John said.

Mycroft gave him a strange look before turning on one heel. "Tell my brother I said not to go looking for trouble for a while," he said.

John watched him go with a small smile.

XXXXX

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

Sherlock pulled himself out of the comforting arms of sleep, his eyes opening. He could hear soft breathing beside him and he shifted, trying to get a better look.

John was slumped next to him, his hand resting on Sherlock's head, fingers entwined in his curls. Sherlock let a small smile pass over his face and he drifted back into sleep.

He knew he was safe with his blogger at his side.

XXXXX

"But John... just one case! Please!" Sherlock whined from the hospital bed.

"No, Sherlock. Moriarty burned you in several places on your chest, stabbed your shoulder and broke both your wrists! There is no way you are going to leave that bed until you are one hundred percent healed," John said firmly.

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that?" John asked.

"It wasn't Moriarty who broke my wrists. That was me," he said.

John looked at his friend sharply, his mouth opening to chastise the man. But before he could speak, Sherlock began talking.

"I did it to escape my bonds. I was trying to get to a phone so I could call you," Sherlock said.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," John spoke when he was sure his voice wouldn't crack.

"Thank you... for..." Sherlock responded, unable to finish his statement.

"Ok, now I really should be worried. Did you just...?" John asked with a grin.

"Shut. Up."

* * *

**A/N: There you are! I hope you enjoyed this! I, personally, am really pleased with the way this turned out... **

**I would love to hear your thoughts and suggestions! I also take prompts, so if there is a chapter you want to see, suggest it and I will do my best to make it happen (if my muse cooperates of course XD) **

**Have a lovely week! **

**-Dawn **


	3. I Think I'm Dying

**A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the small wait... Thank you for sticking with me. **

**I would like to let you all know that I will be replying to every review I get (unless it is anonymous) from now on. I have really been a slacker as an author and I intend to fix that. XD**

**Anyways... **

**This chapter will be a sick!fic due to the fact that I randomly developed a fever. Seriously... I went out with a small cough and a headache... and on the way home I lost my voice so then I took my temperature and... *sigh* OH WELL. XD**

**Warning: Descriptions of illness. Some minor curse words. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock... Unfortunately.**

* * *

I Think I'm Dying 

"John..."

The voice pulled him out of sleep's warm embrace, his eyes fluttering open. The world was blurry around him, but he could faintly make out the tall form standing in front of him, silhouetted by the light of the open doorway.

John blinked the tiredness away, sitting up and letting his warm duvet fall off his shoulders.

"Sherlock?" He asked, his voice heavy. "What time is it?" He answered his own question, eyes traveling to the bedside table.

The clock's red letters blinked at him. 4:30.

"I do not want to go on a bloody case with you at four thirty in the morning, Sherlock. GO back to bed."

"John," Sherlock repeated himself, and the sound of his voice made the blogger instantly alert. The detective sounded croaky, his voice cracking and raspy. Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe, and John could just make out the slight tremor to his figure in the soft light.

"What is it? Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His feet touched the carpet, the cold air making a small shiver run up his spine. What we he would do just to go back to sleep...

"I..." The detective cleared his throat. "I don't know whats happening..."

"Tell me what's wrong," John said, standing up.

"I think I'm dying," Sherlock croaked.

John's heart fluttered and he felt a pulse of adrenaline thunder through his body. "Why? What's wrong?" His hand groped along the wall, the plaster feeling rough under his fingers. He felt the smooth surface of the switch plate and he flipped the light on.

Sherlock was pale, his curls sticking to his forehead with sweat. John stepped forwards, hands going to Sherlock's shoulder. He could feel the slight heat coming from the detective's dry skin.

"Sherlock, I need you to describe to me exactly what is going on so I can figure out what's wrong..." John said.

"My..." Sherlock blinked and tried again. "My throat is scratchy... my head... I can't breath through... nose." Sherlock was gasping, as if he had just run a marathon.

"Ok, Sherlock... I need you to calm down... Come this way," John said, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and pulling him out of his room. He led the man to the couch, gently pushing him down onto it.

"Have I... been poisoned?" Sherlock asked, closing his eyes and attempting to bring his hands up to cover his face.

"Sherlock, how can you be so smart and not recognize the symptoms. Your sick," John said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I don't get sick," the man said. The sentence would have sounded sinister if Sherlock hadn't been still struggling to breathe, his face pasty.

"Sherlock, you are a human being. It happens to the best of us," John said, stepping out of the room for a moment and heading into the kitchen.

"But I'm better than the best," Sherlock mumbled and John rolled his eyes. Sherlock... always so modest.

John looked through the cabinet under the sink until he found what he was looking for, hands clasping around the small black bag. He pulled the bag out, his other hand reaching for the pile of towels sitting next to a jar of what looked like tongues.

He stepped back into the sitting room, his washcloth dripping with cool water from the tap.

"I brought you a cold cloth," John said.

"Wha' for?" Sherlock slurred, his hands still covering his face.

"Have you never been sick?" John asked incredulously.

"Must have deleted it," Sherlock mumbled. John ignored this, gently pulling Sherlock's hands down and laying the cloth on Sherlock's forehead.

The detective's eyes opened and he blinked as John unzipped his doctor's bag.

"Open your mouth," John said.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"I need to take your bloody temperature, Sherlock," John responded. "Please just open your mouth. Don't make me force you..."

Sherlock let his jaw drop open and John stuck the thermometer in the sick man's mouth, watching as the number rose.

Beep. Beep. 39 degrees.

"We need to get your fever down, Sherlock..." John said, reaching for his bag and pulling out the paracetamol and popping out a tablet.

"Let me get you a glass of water," John said, dashing from the room and grabbing a plastic cub from the cupboard. He was back in an instant, pressing the cool cup into Sherlock's hands.

The detective swallowed the pills down wordlessly, wincing as his throat ached. He felt as if the pill had left gouges running down his esophagus, and he swallowed a bit more water, lying back on the cushions.

He could feel John inspecting him, his face heating with shame and fever. He didn't like the feeling of pity John was sending him, as if he were weak and useless. Stupid transport! Betraying him at a time like this!

"Get some rest, Sherlock..." John said, noticing the detective's eyes sliding shut.

"'m not tired," Sherlock mumbled, already dropping off into sleep.

John grabbed a book from the coffee table, sitting down in his armchair. He may as well stay up now and watch over the detective.

XXXXX

John woke to the sound of coughing, his body jolting him rudely out of sleep for the second time that day.

His book had fallen to the floor face up, its spine creasing. John looked over to the couch to see Sherlock, who was struggling with the blankets. His face was no longer pale, but now his cheeks were red and flushed.

"John," Sherlock said. "Come help me. We need to go to Scotland Yard. Lestrade has another case."

"Are you kidding me?" John asked. "Sherlock, you woke me up early this morning claiming you were dying. There is no way we are leaving the flat today. At all."

"John. I am in perfectly good health now," Sherlock said. "I was simply delirious with fever. It has abated."

John rolled his eyes. "I don't believe that for an instant. Take your temperature and prove it to me."

Sherlock's eye traveled to the table, where the thermometer lay. He looked back at John, as if wondering whether or not he should comply with the doctor. Something in John's eyes made him pick up the small object, putting it into his mouth.

Beep. Beep. 38.5 degrees.

"I won't say I told you so," John said, standing up and stretching, his neck feeling sore and stiff.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John by saying that you won't say I told you so, you said I told you..."

"I know, Sherlock. That was the point," John said. "Now, drink some more water... I'm going to go and take a shower. Do not leave the flat."

Sherlock didn't reply, watching as John walked out of the room, his hand still rubbing at the back of his cramping neck.

The detective stood up, swaying for a moment. He decided he would just pop out for a few moments to visit Lestrade and be back by the time John got out of the shower. What the doctor didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

XXXXX

John turned off the water, pulling a towel off the rack and ruffling it through his hair. He stepped out of the shower, swinging his robe on and opening the bathroom door.

"Sherlock?" he called as he stepped into the kitchen. "I'm just going to make you some lunch. Do you want soup?"

He stepped into the sitting room, eyes going to the empty couch.

That complete bastard.

That was when his phone rang, the little screen lighting up from the table. John grabbed it and pressed it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hey, John?" Lestrade asked. John could hear a noise in the background, soft enough to almost be covered up by the static.

"Yes," John said. "Does Sherlock happen to be with you?"

There was a few seconds of silence, confirming what John already knew. "That complete prick!" he growled.

"He doesn't look good John... He passed out a couple minutes ago and we only just managed to get him up," Lestrade said, his voice sounding heavy with worry. "Should we call an ambulance...?"

"No, Sherlock hates hospitals. That wouldn't help him any..." John responded quickly, imagining the detective lying strapped to a hospital bed, a paper gown over his thin form. He almost laughed before he was shoved back into reality by Lestrade's voice.

"I think you should come and pick him up..."

"I'm on my way."

XXXXX

Lestrade studied the younger man sitting before him.

Anyone could see that Sherlock wasn't well when he had stumbled into the police building, his face red and his chest rattling with coughs. The DI had promptly told Sherlock to go home, but the detective wouldn't listen, insisting on seeing the reports of the newest murder.

It wasn't until the detective slumped forwards into a dead faint that he knew some form of action had to be taken.

John.

That was his best option. He had called Sherlock's flatmate here a while ago, relieved when the blogger picked up after the first ring.

Now, he was standing in his office, Sherlock slumped over in the office chair, his face pasty white.

"Where's John?"

That was the first coherent sentence out of Sherlock's mouth since he had collapsed. It sounded slurred and weak.

"He's coming in a moment, you idiot," Lestrade said, not unkindly.

"Did... did I fall in front of Donovan?"

The second question made a bit of the worry bleed out of his system. Sherlock sounded more like himself already.

"Yes, plus Anderson and pretty much the entire police force," Lestrade responded.

Sherlock just shut his eyes, fingers massaging lightly at his temples. "This is not good," he mumbled.

"It's your own fault, Sherlock," Lestrade replied. "You didn't have to come if you were ill. I would have understood!"

It was at that moment that the door swung open, John bolting in with a slightly wild look to his eyes. He immediately spotted the consulting detective slumped over in the office chair. Without addressing Lestrade, John stepped towards Sherlock, his doctor bag gripped tightly in his hand.

"Tell me what's wrong," John ordered.

"You aren't going to yell at me?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I will do that later, once you feel better," John replied. "How do you feel?"

"I feel awful, what do you expect, John? Your a doctor, you should be able to make a deduction," Sherlock snapped weakly.

"I need specifics. Lestrade said you passed out?"

"I did not pass out," Sherlock replied instantly. "I merely fell over."

John raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock, I swear if you don't answer me I will throw away every single body part in our fridge as soon as we get home."

Sherlock just sighed. "Dizzy. Headache. Muscle stiffness. Sore throat. Fever about 1 degree higher than what it was this morning. Chills."

John just nodded, rummaging through his bag and pulling out a bottle of water. "Drink this and take some medicine. Once we get back to the flat you are going straight to bed. If your temperature gets any higher, I will have to take you to the hospital."

There was no response from the detective. "Sherlock, did you hear me?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, standing up. He swayed for a moment, and John's hand went to steady him.

"Come on, let's get you home."

XXXXX

Sherlock was laying back in bed, another cold cloth resting over his forehead. Walking past Anderson and Donovan had been humiliating, their eyes tracking him as he climbed into the taxi.

He banished the memory from his mind, deciding to delete the humilation as soon as he felt better. He could hear John in the kitched, the sound of a spoon clinking into a bowl making a stab of pain worm its way into his skull.

He shut his eyes as he heard the door open, the sound of the wood scraping against the carpet making him wince.

"You alright, Sherlock?" John asked. "I brought you some food. You will feel better if you eat some..."

"Can't," he said through his clenched teeth. "Head."

John put a worried hand on the detective's forehead. "Your fever has gone down... that's good... But you need to eat... Will you try for me?"

Sherlock blinked and looked at the bowl of soup in John's hand. Steam rose from the top, rising to the ceiling.

He sat up, leaning back against the headboard and accepting the soup from his flatmate. He took a sip, the soup not too hot to scald his mouth, but not cold enough to be unpleasant.

He put another spoonful in his mouth, nodding to John.

The doctor supposed that was as close to a thank you as he was going to get.

XXXXX

"Jooohn," Sherlock groaned. "Why do I feel so...?"

John looked up from his book to see the detective sprawled on the couch.

"Sweaty? Gross?" John supplied. "Your fever is breaking, Sherlock. That is a good thing."

"This is stupid," Sherlock said.

"Being sick is never fun, Sherlock," John said. Sherlock just huffed and rolled over, his back facing the blogger.

XXXXX

It was several days before Sherlock was allowed out of the flat again, his fever finally gone.

Lestrade had called that morning with a double homicide, making Sherlock jump off the couch with a grin.

"We can't be out long," John told the excited man. "We have to be back at lunchtime. You are still recovering."

"Recovering? John, I feel wonderful! A double homicide, John!" He dashed down the stairs, his coat tail flying behind him.

John followed the man with a grin. Life had returned to normal.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry if this was a bit strange... my fever raised a degree as I was writing, so it may be... odd... Also sorry if Sherlock seemed a bit OOC... but... My reasoning was that Sherlock doesn't feel well. He is going to act differently because of his fever... just go with it... XD**

**Leave me a review please and I will do my best to respond. Remember, requests are accepted! **

**-Dawn **


End file.
